


Golden

by Bliss_Smith



Series: Elements of Love/On the Road to Always [1]
Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Because I can, F/M, Self-Indulgent Porn, and because they're cute, what happens when you get a Chantry boy alone in the woods
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-21
Updated: 2018-08-21
Packaged: 2019-06-30 08:45:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15748275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bliss_Smith/pseuds/Bliss_Smith
Summary: Our intrepid lovers learning how much more fun traveling is when they don't have an entourage.





	1. Chapter 1

Maybe it’s the four hours she’s spent with him pressed against her back, the constant heat of him making her sweat in several ways. Maybe too it’s the idea that they are on their own for the next fortnight or so.  Whatever it is she thinks he feels it, too; when she hesitantly suggests they stop early, he jumps on the idea. They both have a list of reasons it’s a smart choice: better to be easy on the horse until everyone is used to the double riding, to be easy on themselves, since they’re both out of practice on horseback. And  _hey, I remember this place, I veered into the woods here and found a small lake with a waterfall_ ,  _that will make a great campsite_. 

 

They give up the pretense the minute they’re off the road. He leads the horse carefully through the woods and still manages to get a hand up under her tunic, letting his fingers stroke her skin, to lightly rub across her nipples the way he’s learning she likes. She tries to be still and not distract him further but a long look at him leaves that idea back in the dust left on the road.  

 

He’s doing that thing she’s coming to love so much, shedding the layers he wears for protection, opening himself for her like he always does when they’re alone. The fact that it’s daylight, that they’re not hiding in a tent or somewhere in the dark wilds is far more intense than she might have guessed. She turns sideways carefully, managing to not disrupt horse or riders. Or, more importantly, his hand from her breast. 

 

She thinks she’s just going to watch him, going to soak up the sight of him like this but she can no more keep her hands to herself than he can. She does the same, slipping one hand in his shirt, letting her fingers wander like his. The main lesson she’s learned about what he likes is he wants to be touched, always. Everywhere. Sweet or dirty, he doesn’t care, he likes both the same. He just wants contact, so much that she knows if she thinks about it too much, her heart will break for what that says about his life before her. 

 

But that’s not for now; that’s for later when he’s sweating through a nightmare she can’t begin to guess at. Now it’s time to feed him love and plant soft kisses on his neck, the kind that leaves him playfully stern, telling her to behave until he can get to the lake. 

 

 

 

She’s getting drunk on him again, on the freedom they have. There’s no one around except the Nilly the horse, and Nilly doesn’t care what they’re doing. 

 

What they’re doing is setting camp. Supposed to be doing. Or one of them is doing, something like that. She gets distracted by watching him lay the fire and finds herself sitting back against a convenient tree trunk, watching the way he moves, the grace and power he has that’s sometimes easy to overlook. 

 

He’s so beautiful, and she’s drunk on love, the heat from his last kiss still on her lips. She strips off her boots and leggings while his back is turned and opens the laces on her tunic. She’s still well covered but she’s accessible now, and the sight of him leaning over to grab the deadwood he gathered is enough to have her slipping her hand inside. 

 

The feel of her hands on her breasts is far more arousing than usual. Probably because she’s never done anything remotely like this, not only touch herself outside, and in broad daylight, and in view of someone else. 

 

Someone who drops the wood he’s carrying when he catches a glimpse out of the corner of his eye. His double-take makes her hands feel even better. He opens his mouth like he’s going to say something, but she can tell by the look in his eyes—and the blush on his cheeks—that he probably has too many options to know which one to lead with. She gives him a wicked smile, the kind she gives him over their shields when she’s daring him to hit her again, and makes a motion,  _go back to what you were doing._  

 

She doesn’t expect he’ll play along but he does, turning back and gathering the wood he dropped, getting it ready to put on the fire when it’s time. He keeps looking, though, and that’s good, that’s exactly what she wanted, the feel of his hungry, excited looks, the sight of his eyes getting the same wild look she knows is in hers. The outline of his thick cock in his leather pants, too, that’s best of all, that has her drawing her knees up and opening them wide, pulling her tunic up just enough to feel the air on her very damp pubic hair. 

 

She lets her hands follow, too aroused and impatient to wait. She wants to see what he’ll do. She never has gotten around to showing him how women masturbate, for no reason other than there’s always something they want to do more. That she’s doing it now, catching him so off guard with it, makes her glad she hasn’t. 

 

She can’t do much; three light strokes on her clitoris has her way closer to the edge than she needs to be. She drops her head back and moves her hands to her thighs, massaging the twitching muscles while she catches her breath.  


	2. Chapter 2

She doesn’t hear him come to her, it’s the heat he brings; simply standing by her feet and looking down at her has the air feeling like he brought the campfire with him.

She opens her eyes and gasps, breathy little noises that are supposed to be words dropping unheard from her mouth. He looks almost feral, somehow younger for all the wild need in his eyes. The thought runs through her head from earlier, what life was like for him before he met her, before he found someone to love him as she does. Her heart breaks fast and hard, a massive sword right through her chest that’s somehow mixed up with her own need, tangling everything together.

He drops to his knees and puts his hands around her ankles. She doesn’t know if it’s in conquest or surrender. Neither does he, if the expression in his eyes is any indication.

A little of both, she thinks. The same for her.

“Show me.” It’s not a question. Not a demand either. Supplication is the best she can come up with.

She pulls her tunic up more and snugs her hips down, getting comfortable. She thinks she found another good reason that it’s happening like this, there’s none of the embarrassed worry the idea always brought before. Now there’s nothing but need.

She goes slow, one hand spreading her vulva wider, giving him a clear view. She holds her other hand up, index finger held to his lips for a kiss. For a hot second she half expects him to bite it off, or something equally wild and violent. The idea is far too erotic for comfort, and she pushes it away before she can give him any telepathic ideas. It’s far too easy for them to read each other’s thoughts in such intimate moments.

He does kiss the pad of her finger but then takes it in his mouth, sucking briefly before letting her pull it out.

“Oh, the things I want to do with that pretty, pretty mouth of yours,” she whispers.

“Two weeks, my love. Plenty of time.”

She could argue that point; all the time in the world isn’t going to be enough. Instead she gives him a soft nod and gets back to the matter at hand.

She pulls her small hood back, showing him her clitoris. He has some knowledge – she’s been teaching him how to make sure it’s in on the action while they’re having sex, but she’s not given him any in-depth pointers, so to speak. General guidelines until now, as she rubs softly, delicate little swirls, showing him how to tease up her own small erection.

It’s the same as before, though; she can manage only a few moments before she needs to stop, pull herself back. “I can’t make this a long, drawn out thing. Your watching is making it too intense.”

“Good. Just means you’ll have to do it again to give me a longer show.”

She tries to keep her eyes open as much as she can, but sometimes there’s no choice. Her head drops back and her eyes close as she loses herself in how good it feels. Not just her hand, that’s very good, but it’s nothing next to the look in his eyes, the way he’s watching. His mouth isn’t helping at all, either, the lips she loves to look at whispering words of want, desire and encouragement, and always gratitude, that she gives herself to him like this.

She tries to draw it out as much as she can, rubbing and squeezing everywhere except her clitoris, even sliding a finger inside to gather more sticky syrup to play with. It’s not easy, and it’s getting to a point where she’s liable to kind of stumble over it, her body giving it up before she’s ready for it. He won’t care, but she will, she knows how she can make herself come, how good and hard, and that’s what she wants to share with him.

All she needs is the pad of her finger and the heat in his eyes, his words of love that wrap around her like a spirit. She can’t look away from him, won’t. She can’t help the instinct to hide, that he’s going to be somehow repulsed by seeing her so raw and carnal, but she slams through it as if it’s just another opponent to knock down with her shield.

Her legs are wide, splayed open and flexing as her hips rock. The softness of her touch on her clitoris is a direct counterpoint to the heat in her eyes, the dirty words she’s not aware of saying. It’s all background static, backdrop to the feeling of laying herself bare like this, for him.

“I love you,” she says, breathless and groaning, she has to say it as the trembling starts somewhere around her ankles, where his hands still hold tight. She fights the head drop, needs to keep her eyes on his. Even if she can’t focus, she still needs to see that heat, the molten core of his adoration. “Oh Alistair, I love you.” This time it’s a whisper that turns into a sob, into a breathy scream as her finger rubs and her hips arch up, as she lets herself go and comes for him.

She knew it would be good but not like this. She comes so hard it hurts, the physical waves radiating out, making her moan and buck, twist and thrash. But her eyes never leave his; she’s focused on him more than her own body, on the way he’s looking at her. It doesn’t seem to want to stop either; the waves keep rolling and she keeps crying his name, crying her love for him.


	3. Chapter 3

It’s the pull on her ankles that starts snapping her back, the way his hands grip tighter and yank her down, on to her back where he can lie down on her, drop his body weight on her as he gets his pants open and down enough to be out of the way.

She pulls her hands from between them to help with his pants, her words changing from love to need, becoming growling gasps of begging demand.

Usually he goes slow, liking to tease them both with the feel of his cock slowly filling her up, but that’s not an option, it seems. He pushes into her in one fast thrust, his own growling words coming at the feel of her muscles still clenching from her orgasm.

Is it the sunlight or the freedom? All she knows is they’re different somehow, whatever they bring to life when they connect is stronger. More potent. Sharper, too, and far more prone to stabbing. She loves him so much it hurts, somewhere so deep down she didn’t even know she had such a place in her.

He knows it too; his eyes follow her down her well of love and need, holding her tightly and keeping her anchored even as he croons words designed to push her deeper. He’s found her key and he’s not at all hesitant to use it.

“That’s my girl. Rip your heart out and feed it to me.”

She screams at that, the already ingrained habit keeping her volume low, but she makes up for it in intensity, in the way she surges up against him, head and shoulders all the way back, arching herself like a bow to offer access to her chest. She’s dimly aware if he did start cutting on her she’d give that same scream of triumph and lust. The idea just pushes her down more, to a place where such thoughts no longer matter.

He doesn’t cut but he does bite, leaving the first of many teeth mark bruises in her skin, growling against her chest as he grabs her by the hips, his hands hard and insistent, planting more bruises for her to find in the morning, ones that will leave her stunned and desperately needy.

He doesn’t just thrust into her – he bounces her off him as well, his well-toned muscles all he needs to push and pull her like a rag-doll, his flawless rhythm turning into music the sounds of their bodies smacking together.

His cock undoes her like little else ever will again. He’s thick enough inside her that his cock rasps against every nerve ending. He pulls out fast and pushes in slower, playing her like an instrument, one made just for him.

He’s giving her new words here in the sunlight, as he grips her tight and fucks himself with her body, whispering  _mine, all mine_ , the simple words becoming a litany, a chorus to accompany the drumbeat of their bodies.

It’s like his hands on her ankles; she can’t tell if his words are to claim the fact or simply celebrate it.  Whatever it is, it’s a heady mix, the intensity of his words and the enthralled love in his eyes doing to her outside what his cock is doing inside her.

She lets herself move without thinking too much about it, catching him just right that a hard hip flip has him rocking sideways. It’s easy enough after that to press into the motion, letting gravity do what her smaller size can’t on its own. It helps too, when he catches on, hands back on her hips to help swing her up and on to him.

“Oh Maker, you’re dripping down my balls,” he groans, making her blush and drip more, a light little flood that makes him yank her down to kiss her. He puts one hand on the back of her head and one on the small of her back, holding her tight against him.

This is a new position for them, one she knows of only from a few books. She’s still hesitant about being too forward. No matter how much he says he enjoys it, she can’t always get rid of the fishwife. But this is one she’s been waiting for, an idea she’s shaped over many a day’s walk. 

She wants to pin his hands, just to see if he’ll love it as much as she suspects, but she’s impatient and nervous and still shorter. To do that she’ll have to lift up some, and she’d much rather stay where she is.

She puts her hands on his chest and pushes back against his hands, not asking for him to let up but telling him she’s moving. She wants to know what this is going to feel like, needs to.

She settles in once she’s upright, hands still on his chest and her hips up, only half of his cock inside her. She smiles as he raises his hands, this time shackling her wrists. “May I fuck you, Alistair?”  She tries not to smile, or blush, or let her nervousness show. This is nothing but her being bold as brass, and she doesn’t know if he’s going to like it.

“Yes, please,” given with a laugh that turns into a sharp catch, like he’s being stabbed somewhere vital.


	4. Chapter 4

She sits back all the way, pulling her wrists out of his grasp to move them so she can press her palms against his and hold tight to his hands. She lets herself down slowly. As much as she wants to just seat drop on him, she won’t. She wants to draw it out like he does, savor the way this new angle feels. 

 

It feels so good she doesn’t think it can get any better, but then she moves her legs and places her feet on either side of him, getting her hips out of the way so she can feel every inch of him buried up as deep as he can be. “Oh, Maker,” is all she can manage before she steps outside her head, before she gets lost in the feeling of it. She rocks and grinds, bucking her hips like she’s been doing it for years, pure instinct coming up and telling her how to do this, how to ride him, how to claim him. How to keep the depth and get her hands back on his chest, dig her fingers in hard enough to leave her own bruises. 

 

She doesn’t know if she’s trying to hold on or just shove her hands inside him. As wild as she feels, it could be either. She’s found the perfect angle, one that grinds her clitoris against the stone base of his cock and his thick, soft pubic hair, and all she can do is keep going, keep rocking until she has another blistering orgasm, one that leaves her eyes dripping as much as her cunt. 

 

He stays still under her while she catches her breath, petting and stroking wherever his hands will reach, giving her all his soft words. He’s still rock hard and throbbing inside her and she grins at the thought, of what his orgasm is going to feel like, after all this. 

 

“Your turn.” She whispers, tossing the reins between them if he wants to pick them up. 

 

His dark grin says yes. “Hold your legs up.” 

 

She lifts them up, curiosity giving way to laughing delight as she figures out what he’s after. She wraps her arms under her knees and he digs his hands into her hips to lift her up, until he’s barely inside her. 

 

“You ready for this?” he asks, but it’s not really a question, more of a warning. He doesn’t give her a chance to answer either way, just slams her down on him like he’s smashing something against a rock, hard and fast, and with such an angle that she feels him slamming into parts he maybe shouldn’t be. 

 

It feels like he’s eviscerating her, but she doesn’t care, her initial cry of pain turning into one of something much baser. Need and triumph, more of that claiming. Conquest and surrender, they’ve traded it back and forth so many times she can’t begin to guess who’s holding the reins now. “More, please,” she cries, the companion to yes, please. More, please, that’s what’s more than forever, and she can’t stop the words from tumbling out, her litany for him. 

 

“Magic,” she cries, because it’s that, too. One of them surely must be a mage in hiding; how else can they bend the air around them like they do? 

 

“Love,” he cries back, the laughter as bright as his tears and his heavy rasps of lust. He’s bouncing her on him like she’s a feather, a ball he’s tossing up and down, completely losing himself in the feel. 

 

She holds tight to herself trying to not lose herself like he is. If she does, she won’t be able to watch him. He’s arching up under her, lifting them up high even as he keeps bouncing her, his shoulders pressed hard on the ground and his head turning side to side, shaking in something that might be negation but is probably too mindless for that. 

 

He is magic, glowing under her, the late afternoon sun sculpting him in gold. Anything for you, she thinks, as she bites back cries of pain, as she lets herself fully relax in his grasp. 

 

The moment she does, his eyes come open, fully aware of what she’s doing. Maybe more than her, she thinks, because all too often he’s one step ahead of her, waiting for her to catch up to where he is. 

 

The look in his eyes is brutal in a way she can’t understand, hurting more than his stone cock jabbing into her cervix. She starts coming, such an automatic response to the way he’s looking at her that she knows she’s beyond all hope of ever turning away from him. 

 

She’s flooding down his cock, so much it feels like she’s bleeding. She won’t look down, knowing she’ll be disappointed if she isn’t. She wants him to make her bleed. 

 

She’s the tipping point, either the muscles clenching around him or the waterfall pouring down him. It’s enough to make his rasps into moaning cries, animal sounds, he’s back to the feral one who dropped to his knees in front of her, as open and exposed as he can get without splitting skin, coming so hard she can feel every burst, every throb as he cries his love and devotion, his promise of forever.


End file.
